


Strangers 'Til Now

by mokuyoubi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Body Worship, Bottom Will Graham, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Fix-It, Identity Reveal, M/M, Marking, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, References to Drugs, Scar Worship, Scars, Top Hannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Mizumono, season 3 AU -- Instead of being pushing him off the train, Chiyoh takes Will to Paris. There, in Hannibal's old haunting ground, they attend a Masquerade where Will sees someone who reminds him very much of the man himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers 'Til Now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clicktrack_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/gifts).



> For the prompt: Will fools around with a man at a masquerade party that he is forced to go to, who reminds him of Hannibal. It might be Hannibal. Or maybe Will has totally gone coco loco. Writer decides. 
> 
> I hope this is everything you wanted! 
> 
> The translation for French text is available by hovering over the dialogue. Also included at the end of the fic. Thanks to [marynn-kokoelma](http://marynn-kokoelma.tumblr.com/) and [popsnouck](http://popsnouck.tumblr.com) for helping me with those translations :D You rock!

It was a low slung building on the edge of the 16th arrondissement, just beyond the lush, woodland paradise of the Bois de Boulogne. The brick façade had seen better days, worn and crumbling, paint peeling from off-white to blue to the original red. Boarded over, blacked out windows gave no hint at what lie within. Most would never even give this place a second glance, and those who did wouldn’t be granted admittance without the right knock and password.

To say that Will was hesitant would be a gross understatement. Chiyoh looked graceful and at ease in her costume--some Victorian inspired get up complete with bodice of intricate oriental brocade in a rich blue, and gathered black skirts over leather pants. The blade strapped to her thigh was more functional than fashionable, but Will doubted any of the party-goers would notice. 

She’d finished the look with a carved Deigan Noh mask. The strikingly white skin, bright red lips, and golden eyes framed with high, downswept brows alternately gave the impression of sadness, omniscience, and disgust, depending on how she tilted her head. All things considered, Will found it to be an appropriate choice for her.

Though it hadn’t shown in her face or words, Will knew Chiyoh had taken no small measure of glee in dressing him for the masquerade. Insisting that she knew better than he what would be acceptable for this crowd, she’d chosen his costume and paid no attention to his input or protests.

Which was how Will found himself in a pair of suede tights and primitive leather armour, all the pieces in varying shades of warm brown. The golden sleeve caps held his deer pelt cape in place. It was thick and fell heavily down his back, the segment endings fashioned to look like tails. 

That had caused his first stirring of suspicion, confirmed when she’d given him his mask. It was an elaborate papier mache creation in the shape of a realistic stag head that covered all but his lips and jaw, with real antlers rising up from his head.

Any lingering doubt that Chiyoh was a direct product of Hannibal’s influence was gone, given the man’s affinity for antlers in his interior design, along with the wry amusement she radiated at his expense. Will felt truly ridiculous. It wasn’t that he had a particular problem with the costume, but he wasn’t the sort of person who dressed up, and just one look in the mirror had confirmed that he looked absurd. 

Chiyoh wasn’t hearing any of it. “If Hannibal has been in Paris, someone here will know,” she said, tone brooking no argument. “You came to me for my help.” She gestured grandly between the two of them as if to say _here it is_.

And so here they were. Chiyoh knew the special knock, and when the peephole on the door slid open, she leaned in close and whispered, “ _Lustre_.”

The building opened into a long, narrow corridor, lit only by candles in sconces on the wall. When they reached the end, another guard opened a second door, and there was a sudden rush of noise--live music, hundreds of voices rising over one another, laughter and gaiety. It was opulence beyond what Will had envisioned

Midnight black velvet hung draped from the ceiling and delicate golden fairy lights twinkled in it like stars. The walls were covered with thick tasseled golden curtains. Sheer, shimmery fabric the colour of burnt sienna hung throughout the room, dividing the space into smaller areas. Will supposed it was meant to lend a sense of intimacy to the cavernous room, but it left him feeling claustrophobic.

Immediately inside the door were small circular tables dressed in fine china and glittering crystal. Grandiose floral centrepieces spilled across the black tableclothes. Roses, orchids, hydrangea, and calla lilies in shades of yellows, reds, oranges, and blues were cut through with iridescent feathers and strings of sapphires and emeralds and the odd topaz. Among the flickering light of the scattered votive candles, they winked and sparkled.

There was a veritable feast laid out over several long banquet tables--delectable canapes, mouth-watering hor d’oeuvres, oysters and escargot, dainty sandwiches, and on and on. Masked wait staff stood at the ready to serve fine cuts of steak, paté, chicken pinwheels, and slices from the entire roasted boar, stuffed and dressed, meat falling from the bone.

Then there were the dessert tables. Fresh fruit and fountains of chocolates, petit-fours, cakes and truffles, and every decadent treat one could wish for. Champagne spilled freely, waiters cut through the crowd with flutes of it, glasses of white and red wine, and open bars sat in each corner of the room. Chiyoh snagged two flutes of bubbly from a passing tray and handed them both to Will before disappearing into the crowd.

Will bit back a snarky response she wouldn’t hear anyway and downed one glass immediately in a vain attempt to settle his nerves. He set it aside on the nearest table and made his way further into the room, sipping from the other.

Beyond, the floor opened up for the dancers. Men and women, many dressed in costumes far more ambitious than Will and Chiyoh’s, moved together in easy, elegant grace. Skirts swirled, carved and painted masks flashed as they turned--a red demon, a golden elephant, a green and purple peacock. The display was dizzying.

With faces obscured, eyes covered or lost in the shadow of the masks, Will was at sea among this crowd. There were no cues for him to read, no micro-expressions giving away the thoughts and feelings of the attendees. He heard snatches of conversation, but could only guess at the implications beyond the words, whether they were lacking in sincerity, or downright lies. Tone only went so far in establishing a baseline for understanding.

It was unsettling--one of many reasons Will had done his best to avoid costume parties throughout his adult life. He was awkward enough in social settings with his empathy and mirroring; without it, he was a lost cause. So instead of trying to read the crowd, he drank in the atmosphere and let his mind wander back in time, seeking out the echo of the one he came to find.

Of course this sort of ostentatious gathering would appeal to Hannibal, particularly in his teens. Will could _almost_ see him here, achingly beautiful in his youth, eager to experience everything life had to offer. Moving self-assuredly through the crowd of other rich, lovely young things. Chiyoh mentioned the back rooms and the variety of physical pleasures to be had there, ranging from drugs to torture to sex, and everything in between.

Honestly, it had been difficult for Will to trace Hannibal’s roots, before his arrival in Europe. Visiting the Lecter estate had been the first step a dark, winding path. Now following Chiyoh to all the spaces Hannibal once occupied during his time in France, those lines of influence were lit up like Christmas lights.

For Hannibal Lecter, there was no shame in indulging in every last sin of the flesh. How deeply he drank from that generous cup, sampled from the lips of any willing mouth, man or woman, young or old, as long as it was _interesting_. An eager student, learning how best to please his partners--to drive them quivering and begging beyond that precipice.

Leaving behind the pain of his past by drowning in the deep, dragging hold of heroin. Finding soaring heights of sensual delectation with ecstasy. Hours and days lost to various hallucinogens. His charisma bubbling bright and effusive from cocaine. And better still, discovering the power of his own suggestive abilities with those under the influence.

Such a thing might have once intimidated Will, but now he found himself longing for first hand knowledge of that Hannibal. That uncertain, haunted, cocky boy, just beginning the shedding of his mortal skin to discover the thing lying dormant beneath. 

Will wandered the edge of the party, committing all the details to memory, should they later prove relevant. Most of the costumes fell into one of two categories: there were the designer gowns and suits fresh from the runway, finished with a token mask--finely made, but generic nonetheless; or there were the custom made, hand-tailored costumes like Will’s, each piece perfectly coordinated. The odd, poorly put together ensemble spoke of a last minute assemblage, and there were maybe a handful of costumes that stood out from the rest, truly spectacular.

Will realised, as he observed the interactions of his fellow party-goers, that the costumes themselves allowed him some insight into the behaviour and motivations of the crowd. Within this subset of the upper class, with their unique tastes, there was a hierarchical structure that was quickly becoming clear. 

Subtle cues of dominance--the woman who stood behind her chair while the rest of the table sat, looking up at her; the woman with hands on her hips, holding still and expressionless as she spoke; the man who casually laid hands on the arms and shoulders of those in the circle around him. These tended to wear the grandest of the costumes, with bold colours, wide skirts, or towering headpieces.

The more submissive party-goers, with their downturned eyes, rolled shoulders, and hair twirling, hung back. Their costumes were sleeker, more overtly sexualised--tight, revealing fabrics; pale, warm colours and flesh-tones. Sleeves falling from the shoulders, plunging necklines, bare chests, and sheer fabrics--coyly hinting at what lie beneath, or leaving little to the imagination.

Though he doubted there were any written rules, it was an efficient way to find a compatible partner for the evening’s activities. Perhaps over time, it had become a sort of unspoken tradition, like any secret language used to convey sexual desire and preference.

Then there were those less interested in the power dynamic, those who’d made the decision to come at the last minute or on a lark. Dipping their toes in to test the water, so to speak. Certainly there was more complexity to it, but Will had no interest in that. He knew without a doubt that once upon a time Hannibal had deftly climbed his way to the very top, without even trying.

As he passed one of the dark pockets of the room, a moth in the corner drew his attention. It was the Acherontia atropos, and the costume was so realistic that, if not for the size, Will might have easily mistaken it for the real thing. 

Fitted brown pants with hand-painted detailing emulated the delicate, scaly hairs of the moth’s legs. A long, striped suit jacket mimicked the segmented thorax and abdomen, though it was mostly obscured by the fall of a layered, fluttering silk cape, the once bold dyed pattern dulled and dusty with age. 

The person was faced away from him, but the back of the elaborate headpiece bore the distinctive skull pattern. Long, delicate, individually gathered barbs of feather--perhaps rooster or ostrich, caught in every slight variation of the air, drifting and eddying about. Watching it was almost hypnotic.

These days, it took so little to turn Will’s thoughts to Hannibal. The strangest things reminded him of their time together. Small details brought to mind the conversations they’d shared. Though Hannibal had more than once likened Will not to a moth, but to a butterfly, ready to emerge from his chrysalis, the connection was already made.

Hannibal had always seen him as a diamond in the rough. Imagined Will’s becoming as a bold, glorious coming out. Luring him in had required a physical transformation for Will. Tailored suits, shaven and neatly groomed face, an overall slick and self-assured presentation.

Will had time, over the past several months, to dig deep and really assess his desires and motivations. Going after Hannibal could end in only a small variety of ways, most of them bloody, and if Will wished to avoid that, he had to come to terms with what, precisely, he wanted to happen. 

If he were to acknowledge the truth of what Hannibal had seen--to embrace his own potential to create in the same way Hannibal did--he would indeed need to break through moral bonds that he’d wound tightly around his mind. But the man he saw resultant of that transformation was by necessity an unassuming figure. His bland clothing, scruffy image, standoffish demeanor were the best camouflage to allow him to operate under the radar. 

Will was the moth. It was Hannibal who better embodied the qualities of the butterfly.

A burst of laughter caught Will’s attention from across the dance floor, and the man he saw there held it. He was a tall, slender, holding court. The crowd around him hung on his every word, unconsciously leaning in as if flowers seeking out the light of the sun. He wore a costume of black with gold embellishments, and his cape looked as though it were stained with blood around the hem, spattered with arterial spray over the back and sides. The mask was a realistic carving of a human face, caught in the rictus of death. 

Red Death, himself. If Hannibal were present tonight, Will could think of no more fitting costume. With his twisted sense of humour, Hannibal would appreciate the reference, the deadly predator moving amongst the unwitting crowd, ready to kill indiscriminately. No amount of begging, no wealth or status could stay his hand.

As if compelled by some outside force, Will’s feet carried him forward. He cut through the tables and around the edge of the dance floor, drawing nearer. But though the man commanded such a crowd, he must have spoken softly, for no sound of his voice carried. 

Will’s pulse quickened in anxious anticipation. Would Hannibal recognise him? There was no way he could have expected Will’s presence, with the piece he’d bribed Freddie into running. He’d caught her sneaking pictures of him at the grocery store, cartful of dog food and liquor, and not much else. Then again, she hadn’t really been trying to be discreet, standing in the next checkout lane and eyeing his purchase with a haughty arch of her brow. He’d decided to forgo stalking charges, in exchange for her making up a story about his recent setback. The photographs were a small price to pay for the knowledge that Hannibal would think Will’s drinking had put him back in the hospital and no where near France.

Will had nearly made it to his side when a hand closed around his arm. His own forward momentum and the strength behind the grip jerked him back sharply, making him stumble, his champagne spilling down the front of his costume. He eyed the stain on the suede with an arched brow and twist of his lips. Perhaps it was a good thing to have an excuse never to wear it again.

“Je peux vous aider ?” Will asked, brushing at the stain ineffectually, and making sure to inject the appropriate level of cool disdain in his voice.

“J’espère bien,” the woman purred. Will finally turned to face her, taking in the generic domino mask, golden trimmed in red ribbon and what appeared to be real rubies. An exquisitely cut suit showed off her lovely figure, and further spoke of both an abundance of wealth and a dearth of imagination. “Je vous offre la même chose ?”

Will was keenly disappointed in how much his own mask covered, that she could not see his expression of utter disgust. “Je peux me server une boisson gratuite moi-même, merci bien. Je ne suis pas intéressé,” he said, as politely as he could manage. 

He flexed his arm in her surprisingly firm grip and considered prying her fingers loose. Chiyoh would probably leave him to his own devices if he started a scene, and who knew where that might land him with this crowd, once they realised he was an outsider.

“Comment pouvez vous le savoir, avant même d’avoir essayé ce que j’ai à offrir ?” The woman was stunningly attractive from what Will could see--a straight white smile and bow shaped lips, blue eyes, pin-straight blonde hair falling in a sharp line around her shoulders, one brow arched in what she no doubt supposed was a charming expression.

“Pas mon genre,” Will said tightly. It wasn’t exactly true. There was more than one strong-willed woman in his past, taking from him what she wanted, but these days Will’s inclinations tended another way.

The woman stepped closer, rubbing against Will’s hip. She was a tall woman, and in her heels she towered over him, using that height to her advantage, hoping to intimidate. “Un petit peu difficile pour quelqu’un avec un accent aussi prononcé,” she purred. “Première fois que tu montes à la grande ville depuis ta campagne ? Tu aurais bien besoin d’un initié pour te guider..”

“Excusez-moi,” a new voice interceded, and they both glanced at the source. The hulking, shadowy presence of the Death’s Head moth had manifested from the shadows at their side. Up close Will could see the details of the cape, it’s thin, fluttering segments of silk-chiffon. Individually the dyed pattern was abstract, only taking shape as they settled into place.

“Peut être est-ce la première fois que vous assistez à une de nos soirées, mais ce n’est pas ainsi que nous nous comportons. Lachez-le, et je vous accorderais le bénéfice du doute et ne poursuivrais pas plus avant. Dans le cas contraire, je me verrais contraint de signaler votre comportement aux organisateurs.”

The woman stared him down, ultimately unsuccessfully. The shifting feathers fell thick and heavy around the moth’s face, and the reflective, compound eyes of the mask made it impossible for her to actually meet his gaze. She released Will’s arms after a long moment, vaguely unnerved as she took a few steps backward, still studying the moth’s face. 

“I apologise for that,” the moth said, in English. “I hope you won’t allow one experience to ruin the evening for you.” Despite the costume completely obscuring the form of the body beneath, and the mask hiding every detail of the man’s face, Will would know that voice anywhere. A trembling sensation swept through him at the recognition. 

“I can hold my own,” Will answered. He continued to speak it French, thankful for how different his voice sounded. It came out more forcefully than he intended, but he spoke the words absently, by rote. 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Hannibal said. “Forgive me if I’ve overstepped my bounds.” He sketched out a bow, and began to turn away, and it was then that Will realised he’d come over not because he’d recognised Will, but because he’d seen someone behaving poorly. 

“Wait!” Will reached out, stopping short of making contact. “Her rude behaviour doesn’t excuse my own.” 

Hannibal turned back. Will was familiar enough with his body language to read the interest in the tilt of his head. “It’s quite alright,” he said, lifting one shoulder in an elegant shrug.Though his accent was flawless, there was no mistaking the pitch and timbre of his voice. “I remember what it was like, the first time I came.” 

Will ducked his head, easily adopting a shy posture. “Is it that obvious?” 

“I wouldn’t call your accent atrocious,” Hannibal said, voice trailing off with a faint hint of amusement, “but it certainly stands out in this crowd. They can smell fresh blood.” He took a steady, unthreatening step towards Will. “For some, innocence and inexperience is too great a temptation to resist.” 

“The impulse is to possess?” Will asked. He fell into a slouch, intentionally exaggerating the height difference between them. Drew in his limbs more closely, taking on the subtle signals of submission he’d observed in so many others tonight.

Hannibal dipped his head in agreement. “To sully something pure.”

Will fought the automatic, sarcastic denial of his own purity. Somehow, Hannibal hadn’t yet recognised him, and Will wasn’t ready to end the charade. “Is that why you came over here?” he asked. 

Slowly, with deference, Will took a step forward, then another, closing the last bit of distance between them and reached out to lay his hand against the front of Hannibal’s costume. It was slippery soft under his touch. “Did you save me only so you could sully me yourself?” 

The reflective eyes of the mask glanced down to the place where they touched. Will heard him draw a deep inhale and realised that even with his sensitive nose, Hannibal would not find anything familiar in Will’s scent, buried under the suede and leather, and the high-end cologne Chiyoh had presented him with, so different from anything he’d ever worn before.

“It was not my intention,” Hannibal said. Carefully, he covered Will’s hand with his own, holding him in place. “Though I must admit, the idea has merit.”

There was a strange, electric thrum of excitement sparking in the air between them. It was thrilling to play the role of the submissive when in fact he was the one in complete control of the situation. Hannibal stroked his thumb across his knuckles, and Will didn’t have to feign the shiver that ran through him. When he smiled, he kept the sharp edge out of it. 

“Would you care to dance?” Hannibal asked, giving the slightest tug to their joined hands towards the dance floor. 

Will chuckled. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said ruefully. “Though perhaps with the right lead…?”

Wordlessly, Hannibal led Will through the crowd. The band was playing a slow, sultry number. Will couldn’t say what sort of song it was or what sort of dance was expected of it. He was hyper aware of Hannibal placing his hand on his waist and allowed himself to be pulled him close. His own hand rested lightly on Hannibal’s shoulder.

Hannibal brought their joined hands up, and with the lightest pressure, began to move. Being unable to see Hannibal’s eyes made it a bit trickier, but Will was used to reading his body language. Almost since the moment they’d met, they’d begun to move in tandem, complementary to one another. Will suppressed the initial urge to struggle for control of the lead and gave in. Allowed his body to move almost without conscious thought, along the lines of Hannibal’s design.

Will was barely aware of the other people moving around them. With Hannibal’s hands guiding him, he felt as though they were one unit, gliding gracefully across the floor. Hannibal’s stride was smooth and sure, and Will managed to match each step. There were no awkward bumped hips, no trodden toes, no single instance where Will stepped forward when he should have stepped back.

When the song ended, the couples parted to applaud. Hannibal released him but stayed close, standing at Will’s shoulder. He leaned in as near as he was able with their respective headpieces, and murmured, “For someone who protests he is not a dancer, you performed admirably.” 

Will ducked his head in amused gratification. The more he played the role of the timid new-comer, the less it felt like a show. “I’m a quick learner,” he said demurely.

The next dance was much faster paced. With each successful turn they made, Will’s breathless disbelief mounted at his own ability to follow at such a dizzying speed. He clung to Hannibal’s shoulder, light-headed and laughing as he finally stumbled and Hannibal caught him, arm wrapping firm around his waist. 

Will could hear the indulgent humour in Hannibal’s voice when he spoke. “That might have been a bit ambitious for a beginner,” he allowed. “Come, have a drink. Catch your breath.”

“You must be used to a different caliber of dancer,” Will said.

Hannibal led him by hand from the floor and Will found himself clinging, unwilling to let go. There was a blade in his pocket--at any point during their dancing he could have used it. Though in the panic he might have been restrained, eventually Hannibal’s identity would have been confirmed and Will would have been released.

Yet here they were, and Hannibal was still breathing, and Will had to face the fact that he’d made his decision well before this evening. He’d made it months ago, when he’d first warned Hannibal about Jack. What, precisely that meant was still unfolding for him, but it no longer necessitated Hannibal’s blood.

“You needn’t apologise for the lack of skill,” Hannibal said. “Your enthusiasm is far preferable to the polite detachment of a more accomplished dancer.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Will said, laughter bubbling over. “You strike me as the sort of man who appreciates technical perfection above individual expression.”

Will wished fervently to see Hannibal’s face in reaction to his words. From the way he drew himself up taller, shoulders back, Will could only imagine his surprise would be something see. “That is quite the insight,” he said mildly. 

“There are only so many types of people who come to these gatherings,” Will said. He accepted the glass of red wine Hannibal passed him and paused to breathe deeply the bouquet, to savour a small amount on his tongue. 

“Please elaborate,” Hannibal prompted. He had no wine for himself, mask firmly in place. 

Will gestured around them, and began to explain what he’d noticed earlier, about the dynamic of power amongst the guests, according to the style and detail of their costumes. Hannibal was silent and attentive. Though Will couldn’t see his face, he knew he had Hannibal’s absolute attention now. 

“But your costume…” Will plucked at one of the ragged-edged strands of silk, wound it around his hand and tugged, just slightly, before letting it fall again. “It’s different. You understand the dynamic but have no wish to be a part of it. I have to wonder what you’re even doing here.” 

After a long pause, Hannibal finally responded. “It’s been some years since I last attended, and I almost didn’t come. In the end, I suppose it was nostalgia, for the man I once was.” 

“And who was that man?” Will asked, swaying closer to him. 

“Let’s just say, he wouldn’t have been caught dead in this particular ensemble,” Hannibal said humorously, sweeping a hand down himself. 

“Well I for one am glad you surrendered to nostalgia,” Will said, tipping his glass in a toast. “I’d have been dreadfully bored without you here. But I rather like your costume. I have to admit it drew my attention from the first.” 

“Why is that?” Hannibal asked. Even in French, the tone of clinical interest was quite clear. 

Will swirled the wine in his glass. “It reminded me of a friend of mine,” he said. How long would it take for Hannibal to put it all together? It was amusing to skirt the edge, dropping hints. “He had a fondness for metaphors involving butterflies. I think the superstitious fear of the Death’s Head would appeal to him in particular. I came here tonight in hopes of finding him.” 

“And you thought I was him,” Hannibal surmised. Will wondered if he would be offended or amused to learn that Will had in fact thought him to be the Red Death. “Were you disappointed to find me in his stead?” 

“Actually, I think I found exactly what I was looking for,” Will told him. 

Hannibal took the glass from Will’s hand and sat it aside. He stepped closer, raising his hand to Will’s face, drawing along the freshly shaved skin of his jaw. “I had no intention of seeking out a companion when I set out this evening.” 

Will tilted his head back to look up, did his best to exude a soft, open willingness with his posture and voice. “Have I changed your mind?” he asked. As Will spoke, Hannibal let his fingers drift upward, thumb brushing gently along his bottom lip. 

“Since I last visited, it seems as though I’ve forgotten more than I ever learned,” Hannibal murmured thoughtfully. “I suppose I should allow this evening to serve as a reminder that life is full of unexpected pleasures, just waiting to be had.” 

Some deep part of Will rebelled at the idea that Hannibal was so intrigued by what he thought to be a stranger. It didn’t stop his heart from racing at Hannibal’s words, or the stirring of arousal. “Am I going to be had?” His voice quavered oh so slightly, but he had little doubt that Hannibal would pick up on it. 

Rather than answer, Hannibal tucked an arm through Will’s and began to lead him through the crowd, towards the door that opened into the back hallway. The crowd around them was little more than a blur of colour, the sounds growing dimmer, as Will’s focus narrowed down to Hannibal, watching the skull shape on the back of his headpiece. 

Will fumbled to lace their fingers together. Hannibal’s skin was dry and soft, and Will clung tightly as if the solid ground beneath his feet were slipping away. In a manner of speaking, it was. This little charade of his could only carry on so much longer before he was found out, an idea both thrilling and terrifying. 

Silence fell once the door was closed behind them. There was a relatively small room with scattered, overstuffed furnishings, occupied by small groups, engaged in various illicit activities. From this room there extended a series of hallways, dimly lit. 

“You’re nervous,” Hannibal observed, when they were closed inside one of a countless number of rooms. Hannibal had unlocked it with a key from his pocket, and Will had to wonder at his true motivation for attending this evening. Had he secured a room with the intention to kill someone here tonight? Did he still plan to do so? 

“No,” Will said and then, when Hannibal caged him against the wall, swallowed a shaky little laugh that he was sure would give him away. “Maybe a little,” he admitted. He reached up, pushing back the feathered hood. Beneath, Hannibal’s sandy-blonde hair was in artful disarray and Will gave into the impulse to sink his hand in it. The strands slipped through his fingers, as fine as he’d imagined. 

“There is no call for it,” Hannibal said. His hands were quick and clever, loosening the fastenings on his shoulders. Will’s cape fell to the floor with a rushing sound.“You can leave right now if you wish.” 

Will’s answer was to return the favour, Hannibal’s cape fluttering soundlessly down, gathering in an artful pile behind him. Beneath, the tunic began to give shape to Hannibal’s familiar form. “I don’t want to leave,” he said, letting the honesty shine through in his words. He touched a hand to Hannibal’s chest, feeling firm muscle and the steady beat of his heart. “It’s just...I’ve never done this with a stranger.” 

“My mask may be more literal than most,” Hannibal said, “but no doubt other lovers have worn their own. They may slip from time to time, but it is foolish to think we ever truly see one another.” 

“Isn’t that what we long for most?” Will asked. “Someone to see beneath the mask--to know all our secrets--and to want us still?” 

With shaking hand, he reached out for Hannibal’s mask. He half expected Hannibal to stop him, but he remained still, waiting. Slowly, carefully, Will eased the mask away from Hannibal’s face. As soon as he saw those familiar eyes, however, it fell from nerveless fingers to lie forgotten with their capes. 

Until that very moment, Will had allowed himself the smallest sliver of doubt. His ears could deceive him. His mind could play tricks, so desperate to find Hannibal that hearing any deep, sensuous voice it would draw a connection. 

Yet here he was. Those mournful eyes that caught and held him, as effectively trapped as if he’d been bound and tied in place, sparking first green, then brown, then red in the light. Will saw his own hand moving, separate from his body, ghosting over the fine, high arch of those cheekbones. The slope of his nose, ending in that perfect mouth. 

How had Will never appreciated that mouth? Full and plush, the hint of sharp, uneven teeth when he parted his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Do you see me, then?” Hannibal asked. He sounded faintly amused at the prospect. He could not conceive how fully he was being seen in that moment. Without thinking, Will leaned closer, tilting his head to the side to fit their mouths together. 

It wasn’t surprising that Hannibal was an excellent kisser. He lipped delicately at Will’s mouth, drew the tip of his tongue along Will’s lips, learning the shape of them. Each slide of their mouths together felt like the conclusion of something begun long ago. But the soft nips, Hannibal’s teeth dragging carefully along the swell of Will’s bottom lip, that was Hannibal touching a stranger. 

It wasn’t surprising how well they fit together, as if they’d been made for this very purpose. Hannibal’s body pressed into the negative space left by Will’s. His fingers clenched tight around Hannibal’s collar and tugged him closer. Hannibal took the invitation at face value, deepening the kiss and Will readily parted his mouth for that hot, searching tongue, sucking hungrily. Hips tilted forward, legs spreading wider to let Hannibal closer. Hannibal surged forward, his body rolling into Will’s forcefully. 

It wasn’t even surprising how badly Will wanted this, upon reflection. This was just one of a few inevitable conclusions for them, and by far the most pleasant, though perhaps the riskiest, as well. At this point, there was no turning back. Will wasn’t sure he could stop it even if he wanted to. Needy, desperate noises rose up from his chest, swallowed by Hannibal’s kiss. 

Hannibal’s hands made their way between them, gripping hard at Will’s waist. He was strong and demanding, tugging Will just how he wanted him. One hand slipped over the curve of his hip and around to palm his ass, and Will grunted, rocking into the touch and forward to rub in the groove of Hannibal’s thigh. He felt the answering hardness and his fingers clenched against Hannibal’s chest, surprised at the force of his desire in the face of such a clear sign of Hannibal’s masculinity. 

“May I?” Hannibal asked, pulling back just enough to nudge his nose against the line of Will’s mask. 

Will’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel his pulse racing out of control. Hannibal must feel it too. Did he wonder at Will’s fear? Was the man beneath the mask scarred? Was he ugly? The hand still on Will’s waist stroked firmly in across his belly. It was no doubt meant to be a comforting, grounding touch, but it sparked along the line of his scar, made Will gasp at the bright, shocky pain. 

It sufficiently distracted Hannibal from his intended goal. He drew back, looking down between them with a frown pulling at his lips, wrinkling between his brows. He began to tug at the waist of Will’s leather armour. “Have I hurt you?” he asked, discarding Will’s belt. 

Strange, hysterical laughter bubbled past Will’s lips at the question, even as he lifted the edge of his top, baring himself. “You could say that,” Will admitted, watching as first the thin strip of his belly was exposed, then his navel, and at last the scar appeared. Confusion blossomed on Hannibal’s face, then gave way to understanding. 

Hannibal fell to his knees, breath leaving him in one harsh exhale, hot against the exposed skin of Will’s stomach. For a long, silent moment, they were both still. Will’s fists tightened around the leather in his hands, to the point of pain, and yet he couldn’t let go, too transfixed by the look on Hannibal’s face. 

Awed. Revelatory. Love-struck. 

When Hannibal reached out to touch, his fingers shook. They were whisper light on Will’s skin, tracing just outside the line of the scar. Though the stitches were gone, the scar was still so fresh and new. It was thickest where Hannibal had first slid the blade in, skin purpled, raised and puffy, but it thinned out as it crossed the breadth of his abdomen, ending in puckered pink flesh. 

Slowly, slowly, as if Will were some wild animal and Hannibal afraid to spook him, he laid a kiss to that raised skin. Will sucked in a sharp breath, stomach pulled taut. Though he was still tender underneath, the scar itself was largely insensate. But he could very distinctly feel the texture and weight of Hannibal’s mouth. He could feel the burning heat when Hannibal parted his lips and drew his tongue in the seam of the scar, tracing the path he’d made on Will’s body. It sparked a liquid-hot line straight down the centre of him, throbbing in his dick. 

Hannibal’s hands came up to frame Will’s hips and hold him in place as he licked and sucked at the scar. His mouth and fingers trembled, and Will’s stomach quivered in anguished sympathy. Hannibal’s teeth pressed bluntly into the edge, closed and gave a gentle tug, and Will couldn’t stop the high, keening sound that ripped from him. 

“Oh,” Hannibal said, eyes falling closed, turning to press his cheek against Will’s stomach. Will brought one unsteady hand to rest on the crown of his head, stroking through his hair. “ _Will_.” He spoke the name with such reverence, Will ached. He had to close his eyes, holding Hannibal against him, and draw several steadying breaths. 

“Come here,” Will said at last, pulling at Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal came with some hesitance, laying a smattering of kisses from one end of the scar to the other, even as he rose to his feet. 

Will couldn’t help but smile at that, a hurtful, foreign stretch of his lips. He made his hands let go of Hannibal and reached instead for his own headpiece. It came off all together, horns, mask and all, and Will tossed it aside, meeting Hannibal’s eyes at last. When Hannibal smiled at him, a secret, purely happy thing, Will felt his own smile easing, widening and turning genuine. 

Hannibal reached out and stroked his hand along Will’s cheek, fondness etched in the lines of his face and the delicacy of his touch. “If I saw you everyday, forever, Will, I would remember this time.” 

Will laughed, then had to swallow against the rising lump of emotion in his throat. “I didn’t think I’d find you here,” he said. “Part of me thought I’d never find you. That I could chase your shadow from its origins, through the footprints of your life, and on for a century, and never find more than the traces you left behind. Ghostly after-images of a man already gone from this earth.” 

“And yet here I am,” Hannibal said. He canted his head to the side, curious. “Something must have led you here...or someone?” 

“The same influences and series of events that brought you here this evening, I’d wager,” Will said. “Mischa. Abigail. Chiyoh.” He observed the play of emotions that ran over Hannibal’s face with each name spoken--surprise at his sister’s name. Ever present, fresh heartache over her loss. Resigned regret over Abigail’s. Bright, enthusiastic interest over what had become of Chiyoh. 

“And...understanding,” Will said, choosing his words carefully. This not so different from the dance they’d shared earlier, and he had to proceed with caution, not to misstep. 

Hannibal was still, waiting, as if he knew there was more Will intended to say. But now, in the face of everything else, words seemed small and unimportant. Will leaned in and Hannibal’s eyes fell closed at the last moment before they met in another kiss. Will sucked Hannibal’s lip between his teeth, bit down just hard enough to hear the tremulous moan Hannibal gave. 

They moved as one again, bodies twining together. Hannibal’s hand pushed under the hem of Will’s shirt, his fingers set to the edge of their scar. Will arched into Hannibal’s hold, rocked their hips together. He scrambled with the slippery soft fabric of Hannibal’s tunic for the edges, in search of bare skin. 

When Will parted from him, they were both breathing heavily. “I needed to understand before I laid eyes on you again,” he said. “I needed it to be clear, what I was seeing.” 

“And you?” Hannibal searched his face. “Where does the difference between the past and the future come from?” 

“Mine?” Will asked. He chuckled ruefully, framing Hannibal’s face with his hands, drinking him in. “I used to think it was before you and after you.” 

“Used to?” Hannibal echoed. His fingers rubbed distractingly back and forth over the scar and Will felt his muscles twitching in nervous excitement. 

“Now I understand there can be no ‘after you,’” Will said. With the words spoken, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Admitting it not only to Hannibal, but to himself at last. “You and I have begun to blur. Even when you’re gone from me physically, you’re always there.” 

“Then what is there left for us to do?” Hannibal’s touch drifted higher, rising along the ridges of Will’s ribs, higher still, until the flat of his palm rested above Will’s beating heart. He leaned in until their foreheads were touching. “Freeing yourself from me and me freeing myself from you, they're the same.” 

Will closed his eyes, when he inhaled, it seemed as though he were drawing the breath directly from Hannibal’s lungs. “We’re conjoined,” he whispered. It only took the slightest turning of his head and ducking of his chin for them to kiss. 

They were lost in one another’s mouths for what seemed like an eternity. Will barely knew where either of them began or ended any longer. He brushed his mouth against Hannibal’s again, and again, until his lips were raw and numb. “I don’t know if either of us could survive the separation,” he murmured. 

Hannibal’s hand tightened on Will’s hip. His fingers curled against Will’s chest as if he could dig them inside and rip his heart out, still beating. “Now's the hardest test: not letting rage and frustration, nor forgiveness, keep you from thinking.” 

Will sighed. He’d grown so weary of this game, switching offense and defense so frequently he no longer knew which side he was playing for. He did know that the knife in his pocket had long ago ceased to be an option. He found the shape of it with his hand and drew it out, holding it in the narrow space between their bodies. He felt Hannibal’s muscles going tight, saw the slightest twitch of his hand towards his own pocket, and Will knew well the risk he was taking right now. 

Slowly, pointedly, he raised the blade to rest against the pulse throbbing on Hannibal’s throat. “When it comes to you and me, there can be no decisive victory,” Will said. 

Hannibal hummed, tilting his head back just slightly. “We are a zero-sum game?” Will nodded his head minutely. “Then what do you propose?” 

Will pushed his other hand back through Hannibal’s hair, carded his fingers through that fine, spun-silk texture and gave a little tug. “We could just stop playing.” 

It was as if the thought had never occurred to Hannibal. His eyes darted across Will’s face, trying to discern his sincerity. Will dropped his hand to his side and, taking that gamble, let the blade fall from his fingers, landing with a clatter on the floor. 

“I know,” Will said, chuckling at his expression. “Who would you be without your game? So we play a new one. Cooperatively.” 

“I’m not entirely certain you understand what you’re offering,” Hannibal said. “I’m not certain I do, for that matter.” 

In all honesty, Will wasn’t. He only knew that if he wanted them both to survive--and he now knew that he did--this was the way forward. He wormed his hand beneath his own shirt to lay it over Hannibal’s where it curled over his heart. “We can define what it means as we go on, together.” 

Hannibal turned his hand palm up and laced their fingers together. He tugged Will into a tight embrace, let their mouths brush just so as he spoke. “Together,” he said, and sealed the promise with a kiss. 

* 

Hannibal had a suite in a hotel just off the Champs-Élysées, just as opulent as Will might have imagined. They drove there in a charged silence, Hannibal’s hand clutching the gear stick, Will’s hand high on his thigh, fingers digging into the sensitive flesh. Paris passed by in a blur of golden light as Hannibal sped through the streets at top speed, and Will couldn’t care less about the beautiful sights or how many traffic laws were broken in the process. 

They were barely through the door when Hannibal had Will’s back pressed against it. He followed with a crushing kiss. It was different from the others from the start, full of a new intent on Hannibal’s part, with the resolution reached between them. His mouth slanted hungry and demanding against Will’s as it hadn’t been with a stranger. His hands managed to be both less careful and more worshipful, stroking gently and grabbing roughly by turns. 

A trail of clothing was left behind them as they made their way to the bedroom. Hannibal’s tunic by the door, his tights over the back of the sofa in the sitting room, the top of Will’s armour across the coffee table. Hannibal was careless with the fastenings of Will’s skirt, unwilling to stop kissing him long enough to figure it out, finally giving up and ripping it apart with a growl and letting it pool at the bedside. 

Will smiled sharply and snapped his teeth against Hannibal’s mouth. Something inside him quickened at the animal display of it all. In response Hannibal grabbed him around the waist and lifted him right off his feet. Will managed to get a leg around his hip, lining them up just right before they tumbled to the bed in a tangle of limbs. 

Hannibal’s solid weight landed on him, cock tucked tight against Will’s ass. Will reached between them, getting a feel for the shape of him through his boxer briefs. Hannibal huffed a low moan, rocking his hips into the touch. Will was transfixed by the feel of a cock other than his own, dragging his palm up and down the length, rubbing his thumb across the patch of gathering moisture at the tip. Even in his hand it felt intimidatingly large, but that didn’t abate his desire in the least. 

Hannibal seemed content to allow him this leisurely exploration. He began his own along Will’s jawline and down the column of his neck. If the stinging, muscle-deep pleasure was anything to go by, he was leaving quite an impressive chain of bruises in his wake. Will turned his head to the side, whimpering helplessly when Hannibal buried his face in the curve of his shoulder and bit down hard on the straining tendon there. 

Will’s cock throbbed painfully and he bucked his hips upward, rubbing himself against Hannibal’s leg. Hannibal grabbed Will by the wrist and pulled his hand from his cock, pressing it to the mattress at his side. His other hand clamped down hard on the crease of Will’s thigh, holding him against the bed. Then Hannibal shifted, lined them up, and ground their cocks together, only the thin fabric of his underwear and Will’s tights separating them. 

“Would you--ah--” Will cried out at the rough twist of Hannibal’s hips. He struggled against the hold, using his free hand to tug at his waistband. “Hannibal, fuck, would you just get these goddamned tights off already.” 

Hannibal chuckled, a low, sensual sound. He inhaled Will’s scent, placed a series of gentle, closed mouth kisses up his throat and nuzzled the shell of his ear. “I have often thought of making love to you. Yet in this, as in all things, the reality of you exceeds all that I have imagined.” 

Will gave up on the tights and reached up to grab Hannibal by the hair instead, yanking him up so they were eye to eye. He arched a brow. “I’m curious about these imaginings of yours,” he said. 

Hannibal’s thumb traced tight circles on Will’s wrist, just teasing the sensitive nerves under thin skin. “Would you like me to show you?” he purred. “How I’ve dreamed of worshipping every inch of your body?” 

“I think you’d better,” Will said, swallowing hard, as Hannibal began to illustrate his words. 

For what seemed like an eternity, Hannibal explored Will’s body. Will forgot all about his tights, or anything, really, beyond Hannibal’s mouth. That wicked, clever mouth leaving no expanse of skin untouched. He traced along the line of Will’s collarbone with his tongue, laving the dip of his clavicle, dragging his teeth down his sternum. He teased Will’s nipples to hardness with first the gentlest brush of his lips, then quick flicks of his tongue and scraping teeth, at last closing his mouth around the ever more sensitive buds and suckling harder and harder, until Will was clutching Hannibal’s head to him, hips humping desperately into the empty air. 

Only once his nipples were sore to the touch and Will was dizzy and breathless did Hannibal move on, redirecting his attention to the lines of his abdomen. He spent an inordinate amount of time bringing small, raspberry-coloured spots to life on a patch of skin below his ribcage, sucking and nipping until Will groaned and pushed at his head. 

And then Hannibal was lost all over again to the scar. Under Hannibal’s questing tongue, Will felt himself spiralling apart. Like being sliced open all over again...only now, instead of spilling blood, it was all the long-held doubts and anxieties pouring away in the face of this sensation. Aside from the feel of Hannibal’s mouth on him, Will was all too aware of the emotion behind it. It was almost smothering, that all-encompassing love and devotion, all directed at him. 

Down, and down, he went, tongue swirling in the dip of his navel. Teeth tugging the soft belly beneath, nuzzling the trail of fine hair to where it disappeared into Will’s tights. And then, _finally_ , he was tugging them off. Will lifted his hips, twisting to help kick them off. But Hannibal only got them down around his knees before he was shoving Will’s thighs up against his chest, slinging his calves over his shoulders, and ducking down to suck Will’s cock into his mouth. 

“Fuck, you--your mouth, oh my _god_.” Will punched the mattress, grabbing handfuls of the comforter and arching upward into that wet suction. Hannibal hummed and the vibration rumbled up Will’s dick. He shoved his fist in his mouth, trying to stop the whine from escaping, to no avail. 

Hannibal was ruthless, taking Will’s entire length into his mouth in one smooth, deep stroke and sucking so hard that Will’s eyes rolled back in his head. As with the rest of his exploration, Hannibal was quite thorough in his treatment of Will’s cock. His tongue was quick to find the sensitive spot just under the head and lave attention there, until precome was leaking from him steadily. Hannibal made the most obscene, throaty noises, as if he’d never tasted anything so exquisite in his life. 

When he drew back just to suck at the head, he wrapped his hand around the length, fingers alternating between a torturously light touch along the pulsing vein and a satisfyingly tight grip. Will rocked up and Hannibal let him fuck his mouth, thrusting down to the root again, nudging the back of his throat, and Hannibal took it all. 

“Oh, fuck, seriously, Hah--Hannibal.” Will was babbling but couldn’t stop himself. He was already drawn so tight, ready to fucking come. He reached out with a shaky, hesitant hand, and tangled his fingers in Hannibal’s hair. “This is going to be over really fucking fast if you keep that up.” 

Hannibal lifted his head to pin Will with a darkly amused look. His mouth was red and swollen and Will had to trace those perfect lips with his thumb. Hannibal’s eyes sparked bright and he sucked the digit between his teeth, scraping lightly along the pad. “We can’t have that,” he said, accent thick around his mouthful. “I do believe I promised to worship your entire body, and I’ve hardly even begun.” 

Will groaned helplessly at the words, half delight, half agony. Hannibal just chuckled, sinking back down between his thighs, pulling the tights the rest of the way down and tossing them to the floor. This time he skipped over Will’s cock, pushing his legs open wide and ducking lower to mouth at his balls. Hannibal tongued the stretch of skin just behind, applied enough pressure to make Will’s body jump, to make pleasure spark tight and tense. He clenched down in anticipation, but the touch to his hole didn’t come just yet. 

Instead, Hannibal licked a broad strip along the crease of Will’s hip, dragged his fingers through the thicker, wiry hair around the base of his cock, scratched gently to where it grew downy soft on his inner thigh. These were touches Will never would have considered erotic, never would have sought out, but they left him feeling deliciously hedonistic. Hannibal had taught him to enjoy the pleasures of his cooking, of appreciating the finer things in life, of murder...now it was time to learn something more of the pleasures of the flesh, and Will was a willing student in this as well. 

As Hannibal bit and licked his way down the inside of one thigh, his nails scraped and caressed and pinched their way down the other. Will couldn’t honestly say whether it was pleasurable or painful, but his erection wasn’t flagging in the least, so either way he liked it. Liked the idea of being paid devotion and claimed in one fell swoop, for as clearly as he was giving benediction, Hannibal was definitely staking ownership over his body. A single glance down himself to the head between his splayed legs confirmed that suspicions. His whole torso and upper legs were covered in splotchy marks in a variety of shades and sizes. Hannibal’s hunger for him made visual. 

By the time Hannibal was nosing along the ticklish, delicate skin at the inside of his knee, Will was trembling with need, and he’d had enough. He sat up, grabbed Hannibal by his arms and hauled him up. Hannibal came with little resistance, letting Will roll him onto his back and ply him with kisses. Their hands tangled together relieving Hannibal of his briefs, and that last scrap of fabric gone from between them, they sank together in a blissful press of skin on skin. 

Hannibal was silky soft and hard as steel rubbing alongside Will’s dick and it was shockingly good. Will had to break the kiss and hang his head, eyes squeezed shut, and just concentrate on the roll of his hips. The sensation of their cocks dragging together. It shouldn’t have worked so well, but then he could say the same about so many things between the two of them. 

Even from beneath him, Hannibal was intent on his exploration of Will’s body, now with full body--hands, twining legs, cock sliding ever more slippering with each thrust against Will’s. With one hand guiding Will into place, and the other on his own erection, pulling back the foreskin, Hannibal dragged his cock along the trail of marks he’s left on Will’s stomach. Connecting them with glistening lines of precome, pulling tight as it dried on Will’s skin. 

That Hannibal nudged his cock against the beginnings of Will’s scar, the very vivid evidence that Hannibal had already been inside him, was hardly a surprise. The reactionary pulsing in Will’s cock, jumping in agonised bliss _was_. He hardly recognised the sound he made as his own voice, low and base, as if it had been torn from his very soul, twin to the sound Hannibal made in the same instance. 

“If you wanted inside me so badly,” Will moaned, “you could have asked.” 

“Oh, but I did, dear Will,” Hannibal said. He looked and sounded utterly wrecked. Will liked him like this, hair matted to his face with sweat, cheeks flushed, eyes wild. 

Will growled, grinding down hard. His insides ached, still healing beyond the mended skin. “I’m done with the games,” he said. “If you want to fuck me, _do it_.” 

No sooner were the words past his lips than Will found himself face down on the mattress, face smothered by the pillows. Apparently, he didn’t need to be told twice. Hannibal rose from the bed, lithe as a jungle cat and Will turned his head to watch him stalking across the room to the ensuite. He returned with a bottle of lube, already pouring it into his hand as he climbed up to straddle Will’s legs. 

The muscles of Will’s ass clenched tight at the sight and he took a deep, steadying breath, spread his legs, and willed himself to relax. Hannibal stroked a hand down his side, like he was tending a wounded, feral animal. His other hand probed, slowly but steadily between Will’s asscheeks. The first touch of lube-slicked fingers against his hole made him jump, but Hannibal didn’t give him time to question or protest. He pushed forward, breaching Will’s opening with burning-sweet glide. 

This, the second intrusion, was arguably more intimate, and far more pleasurable. Will clutched the pillow to his face, burying his moan, and arched into the sensation. Beyond the initial sting and the strange, foreign feel of it, he could already feel the promise of pleasure. Any discomfort was quickly forgotten as Hannibal pushed deeper and, with unerring accuracy, found the raised edge of his prostate. 

Will bit down hard on the pillowcase and humped shamelessly into the mattress. Behind him, Hannibal made an amused sound and thrust a second finger in with the first. He leaned forward, draped over Will’s back to kiss his shoulder and the exposed stretch of neck. It changed the angle of entry, dragging over the rim of muscles at his opening, and Will let out a litany of curses, interspersed with pleas. 

“You don’t know what you do to me, Will,” Hannibal murmured. “To smell and touch and taste you.” He punctuated the words with a rough thrust of his fingers and his teeth snapping closed around Will’s earlobe, before swirling his tongue along the shell. “You test my restraint to the very breaking point.” 

Will couldn’t resist such an invitation. He had to leverage himself onto his knees and shove his hips back, taking Hannibal’s fingers all the way. Delighted in the prickly-sweet pain and the way Hannibal sucked air between his teeth before hastily adding a third finger, twisting hard and deep. Will hissed and writhed when Hannibal splayed them wide without warning, stretching far more than he’d anticipated. Of course Hannibal was always pushing him beyond comfort, always so sure of Will’s ability to take it, and adapt. 

Hannibal’s cock nudged between his fingers, and he slipped them free just as he surged forward. The girth of his cock was far more substantial, and as Hannibal sank inside, all Will could do was squeeze the pillow in his fist, mouth hanging open as he panted through that strange, all-encompassing, unrelenting pressure splitting him open. Hannibal rubbed circles in the small of his back with the heel of his hand, and Will felt his body adjusting. 

Oh so carefully, Hannibal rocked back and forward again, settling more fully inside. Will grunted, and shifted his hips, pausing to shudder when he found the right angle. Hannibal took him by the hips and rolled forward in a fluid movement that recreated that same sensation. Then again, and again, until Will’s body was no longer simply making room for his cock, but tightening around it, as if he could draw Hannibal deeper. 

“Good boy,” Hannibal praised, petting along his flank. Before Will could even think to raise his hackles, Hannibal hunched over and set into a truly punishing pace. 

Will’s hands scrambled over the pillowcase and braced against the headboard. Each time Hannibal drove into him, the frame jostled and knocked into the wall. Between that and his own harsh, desperate cries when Hannibal finally closed a fist around his cock and began to jerk him off in time with the rhythm of his hips, Will sent out a fervent prayer that the walls were really thick, or that the next room over was empty. 

And _this_. All the jagged edges of Hannibal’s need matching up to Will’s own, fitting together. How long could they have carried on, poking and prodding at one another, feeling for the raised edges of the masks they wore? Peeling away layer after layer to find that which was hidden beneath, and doing a little more damage each time, only to come away dissatisfied, licking their wounds. When _this_ was enough to lay them both bare. 

All Will had to do was twist and push a hand at Hannibal’s chest for Hannibal to understand what he wanted. They moved together, Hannibal withdrawing and Will rolling onto his back, almost frantically pulling Hannibal back between his thighs with arms and legs. Both sighed when Hannibal pushed inside again. Will was sore, the sensitive skin around his opening throbbing, and it added such an enticing, aching edge to the mounting tension in his gut, the tightness of his balls drawing close to his body. He twined his arms around Hannibal’s neck and lifted up to kiss him. 

Hannibal’s hands were everywhere on Will’s body, prodding each tender bruise he’d left, sweeping in broad strokes over his skin and catching on the most sensitive spots. He twisted one nipple until Will whimpered, and then he swallowed that sound, smile sharp against Will’s mouth. At last his hand came to settle at the smiling curve of their scar. He leaned back, looking down to meet Will’s gaze, and like this, Will could see _everything_. That jumbled mess of man and monster filled with an overwhelming adoration that terrified him. That had driven him to leave this mark on Will’s body rather than risk betrayal. Emotions he’d thought himself above and beyond, and now found himself mired in. 

Will caressed his cheek, smoothing back his damp hair, overtaken by his own affection for Hannibal. That deep, abiding, obsessive love that had led him across the Atlantic, no matter the cost. His back arched away from the bed at the torrent of feelings echoing back and forth and he came with a sigh, cock untouched. His body shook with the force of it and Hannibal’s arms caged him in, holding him, and caught his lips in a hungry kiss. Will tilted his head back and let Hannibal drink his enjoyment from him. 

When they parted, Will was still lost in that haze, and he’d never seen anything as beautiful as Hannibal’s face above him. That expression of utter wonder over Will’s very existence as he drove into Will again and again, mounting tension in his shoulders and the lines of his face as he grew close to orgasm. Will ran his hand down his arm in a soothing gesture and said, “Let go, Hannibal. Let me see you.” 

Hannibal gave a great shudder at his words and covered Will’s body with his own, buried his face in Will’s throat and breathed him in. His thrusts turned shallow and took on an edge of desperation. Will’s body held Hannibal close and tight and Hannibal pushed in as deeply as he could and just ground down, as if they two could become one, never to be separated again. He was silent until the very end, and then let out a great roar as his hips thrust home, driving Will across the sheets and pulsing liquid heat inside. 

Even in the throes of orgasmic pleasure, Hannibal was ever the courteous gentleman, having the presence of mind the fall at Will’s side rather than on top of him. Will closed his eyes and savoured the feel of their sweat-slick bodies pressed close together with each heaving breath. Now, with the initial, overpowering pleasure fading, he could feel every mark Hannibal had left on his body, throbbing in time with the slowing beat of his heart. 

A languorous, delicious heaviness settled over Will, filling him with good-natured sleepiness. He stroked absently up and down Hannibal’s back, and Hannibal made a soft rumbling noise and settled more fully against him. Will was once again reminded of a great, deadly cat, and the thought made him smile. 

With the cloud of arousal passed, Will was able to assess the situation with a clearer mind. They’d been so swept up in the moment, of seeing one another again, of finally giving into their latent desires, it had been easy to forget all his myriad motivations for coming after Hannibal. 

For weeks, all Will had seen when he closed his eyes was an ever rising sea of blood. All he’d heard when he was alone was Abigail’s voice. Now, lying with Hannibal’s solid weight curled against him, all he saw behind his eyes was a comforting darkness. All he heard was their slowing breaths. It was peaceful in a way Will had rarely known in his life, and it confirmed the thought that had been teasing under the surface, since he first woke in the hospital bed. Something he had no control over, as it had already happened. 

There was no point in trying to deny it, so he spoke it out loud, instead. “I forgive you, Hannibal.” He hooked a finger under Hannibal’s chin and tilted his face upward, so their eyes could meet. “Can you forgive me?” 

Hannibal’s eyes darted across his face, and then his hand, tracing a line across Will’s temple. Will could feel Hannibal’s desire to make an incision there, peel back skin and lift away skull. Get inside Will’s head, just like he’d gotten inside his body. 

“The concept of forgiveness is foreign to me,” Hannibal said, at length. “I have never entertained the possibility.” 

Will could all too easily understand the line of reasoning. “There’s never been anyone worth the effort.” 

Hannibal’s lips quirked, the faintest display of approbation and gratification. He sank his fingers into Will’s hair, rubbing at his scalp. “I find that what I feel with regards to you is beyond my conscious ability to control or predict.” 

“How disquieting,” Will teased, though he knew there was likely only one other person in Hannibal’s entire life who’d had the same level of influence over him. “I took something from you, but I’ve returned it. Is that enough to settle the debt?” 

“I don’t yet know,” Hannibal answered, startled by his own honesty. “But I no longer wish you any harm.” 

Will smirked and leaned forward to peck him on the lips. They’d have to work on that, but, “I suppose that will do, for now.” 

* 

Will woke well after the sun had risen. The curtains were drawn, casting warm golden light over the room. Will could finally appreciate the beauty of the cheerful yellow walls and floral curtains, Edwardian furnishings and elegant diamond pattern. Through the open doors to the terrace, he could see the joyfully maintained garden. Bold, brightly coloured flowers and greenery contrasted against the steel and stone skyline. Beyond this elevated sanctuary, he could hear the distant sound of traffic and chatter. 

Hannibal was gone from the bed, and Will poked around in the drawers until he found a pair of boxers to steal. He slipped on the silky robe draped over the armchair and followed the scent of buttery pastries and savoury bacon onto the terrace. The sight stopped him cold in his tracks. 

Chiyoh was seated at the bistro table, looking as gracefully aloof as ever, wrapped in a floral robe, hair down in loose curls around her face. She barely glanced in Will’s direction, offering him a slight tilt of her head in greeting. He was profoundly unsurprised by the fact that she had found them. 

Across from her sat Bedelia du Maurier, staring at him wide-eyed, the teacup she held dangling from loose fingers as she drank in the sight of him. Will was suddenly all too aware of what he must look like, with Hannibal’s marks ringing his throat like some obscene necklace, the indentations of Hannibal’s teeth around his nipples, the chain of bruises just along the rise of his scar. And perhaps most damning, the bruises and scratches on his thighs trailing upward, direction and intent obvious and unmistakable. He drew the robe closed around his waist, tying the sash hastily, but the damage was already done, so to speak. 

“Good morning,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster. 

“It is a good morning,” Chiyoh surmised, without pretense. There was an air of lightness around her, as if she’d just handed off some great burden. 

“Indeed,” Bedelia murmured, and took a great sip from her _tea._ “For those of us who were able to sleep.” She let out a sigh. “There was quite a racket last night.” 

Will considered her. He had no idea what to make of her presence here--until this very moment he’d had no idea that she was even travelling with Hannibal, but there was no other conclusion to draw. That she’d been in a separate room was only a small comfort. 

Before Will could allow the sick jealousy to really develop, Hannibal came out behind him, fresh from the shower, dressed far more modestly in drawstring pants and v-neck. He wrapped an arm around Will’s waist and drew him in to place an absent kiss to his cheek, before moving on around him to the table. 

Somewhat mollified, Will followed, sitting beside him. He gave Bedelia a withering look. “I was unaware we were performing for an audience.” 

Hannibal began to assemble a plate for himself with fresh fruit and cream, spinach and cheese pastry, crisp bacon. “I was in need of companionship,” he said. “Bedelia was in need of a subject to study.” 

Will very magnanimously neglected to point out that Hannibal was only in need of companionship because he’d slit the throat of and gutted his intended companions. He also decided not to bring up the fact that now that he was here, Bedelia’s presence was superfluous. They could have that conversation later, if it needed to be had at all. Instead he snatched one of the strawberries from Hannibal’s plate and swiped it through the whipped cream, eyeing Bedelia as he took the first bite. 

“I’ll admit, you’ve thrown a bit of a wrench in my plans. Welcome though it may be, it does pose a new problem.” Hannibal explained. Will could feel the amusement radiating from him, entirely aware of the tension at the table. Only Chiyoh seemed oblivious, but Will knew it was that she simply did not care. She’d assessed the situation and saw no threat to herself or Hannibal, and was contented. 

“We’ll need new identities for Italy, and I have been looking at Doctor Roman Fell. But Il Dottore has a wife.” He glanced sidelong at Will and arched a brow. “Now, perhaps I should turn my eye on a pair of bachelors?” 

Will chewed his berry, mulling over all the implications of what Hannibal was suggesting. Hannibal intended to kill this man, whoever he was. Guilty of no crime, other than being well-suited to his purposes. They had agreed to define this together, and Hannibal had put forward his proposal. It was up to Will to either accept, or make a counter offer. 

He reached out to lay his hand over Hannibal’s on the tabletop. “Couldn’t we forge our identities?” he asked. “It would be less risky that way, were we to cross paths with someone who knew your victims.” 

Hannibal arched a brow, but gave nothing away. “It is far more difficult a thing to forge an identity from nothing, than to assume one already existing.” 

“New identities,” Will pressed on, heedless, knowing just how to hook this fish. “Still a married couple, though, don’t you think?” He rubbed his thumb across Hannibal’s knuckles and looked up at him demurely from under his sleep-tousled curls. “Husbands?” And with Hannibal staring at him, smitten and full of wonder, he turned his smile on Bedelia. “And your sister, I suppose, if Bedelia wishes to continue her… _study_.” 

Bedelia gave Will a speculative look. “Are you certain you have the stomach for participation?” 

“I’ve already crossed that line, Doctor du Maurier,” Will said. Randall Tier was proof of that, regardless of how Jack had spun the story to keep him out of a cell. “The question is, do you?” 

Hannibal watched them, gaze flicking back and forth in utter delight. Will squeezed his hand. _Cooperatively,_ his eyes said, when they met Hannibal’s, and Hannibal made his approval plain, leaning in to brush their lips together. 

“New identities,” Hannibal murmured. 

“Jack will be looking for us. It will make it easier to avoid his attention.” 

Hannibal stroked a fingertip along Will’s fourth finger. “We’ll need rings.” 

Will grinned. Trust Hannibal Lecter to go for the shiniest lure. “We can go shopping after breakfast.” 

**Author's Note:**

> French to English translations:  
> Will: “Can I help you?” 
> 
> OFC: “Oh, I certainly hope so. Allow me to replace your drink?” 
> 
> Will: “I can find my way to the open bar myself, thank you. I’m not interested.” 
> 
> OFC: “How can you know, until you’ve sampled what it is I have to offer?” 
> 
> Will: “Not my type.” 
> 
> OFC: “A little choosey for one with such an atrocious accent. First time in the big city, country boy? You could use someone who knows the ropes to show you around.” 
> 
> Hannibal: “Excuse me. Perhaps this is your first time at one of our gatherings, but this is not how we conduct ourselves. Unhand him, and I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and allow you to go on your way. Otherwise I’ll be forced to bring your behaviour to the attention of the panel.”


End file.
